


In The Shape Of Things To Come

by geckoholic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: stop_drop_howl, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>She's a puppet on a string, after all, and he's the one making her dance.</em> - Lydia solo that's also sort of Peter/Lydia, set mid-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Shape Of Things To Come

**Author's Note:**

> Morganoconner tagged me with poetry, and apparently that was my cue to write creepy dub-con masturbation porn.
> 
> Beta'd by doughtier, who also helped me come up with ideas by shoving a selection of poems my way. ♥ 
> 
> Title is from "Every You Every Me" by Placebo.

He hid the envelope below the twining flowers. It's bright and purple, so he knows she's going to see it. And if she doesn't, at first, he'll nudge her towards it. She's a puppet on a string, after all, and he's the one making her dance. 

But it's a lot more fun if she thinks she's doing what _she_ wants.

Her eyes are red when she comes home. Not much, not bloated and tear-stained and obvious, but she's been crying. Jackson, of course, and Peter's struck by something that's a little like jealousy and a lot like wounded pride. Lydia is _his_ now. It's him she should be shedding tears about, not some kid that thinks he's the center of the universe and drags her along for kicks.

All of that is rendered irrelevant, though,when she approaches the door, fumbles with her keys, and drops them. She curses under her breath, picks them up and freezes halfway through straightening herself up. Her eyes have fallen to the envelope. She gasps, looks around like she thinks she might still catch him somewhere, like she's afraid, but there's a smile playing on her lips. She bends back down, picks it up, stares at it before she stashes it away in her bag and hurries upstairs.

He could make her open it right away, but that'd spoil the fun. Feeling her squirm, insist that she's not excited and doesn't really want to know what it contains, it's delicious. She'll get there, on her own time, and he basks in the way her heartbeat picks up every time her eyes fly to envelope while she gets started on her homework.

She makes it halfway through her English assignment before she sighs, gets up from her desk to settle on her bed, and digs into her bag to retrieve the envelope. He tries not to rush her when she opens it – it'd spoil this, he wants to feel her reaction – and along with her he reads the first lines of the handwritten poem it contains. _Death comes to me, a girl in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling._

Her heartbeat speeds up, eyes going round in panic and excitement both, and she throws the slip of paper on the sheets. It's a breach of privacy, the envelope's very existence, and she's aware of that. She's too smart not to be afraid. But there's also a thrill, the pang of adrenaline and twisted way of feeling flattered that springs from the knowledge that there's someone who's interested enough to put in the effort.

For all her popularity and facade, Lydia is starved for attention. For love, unrestrained and deep, a wild thing that can't be controlled or contained. She wants someone who's all about her, who'd forget the world if she'd so much as throw a glance his way. Jackson kept throwing her scraps, gave her an appetite, but he never followed through. He never devoted himself to her.

That's what this stands for. Devotion. Making an effort. Someone who wants to conquer her heart instead of expecting her to throw it to his feet. She picks the poem back up. _It's not so terrible, she tells me, not like you think, all darkness and silence._

Lydia's eyes fall closed, and Peter knows he made the right choice. Romance and corny, that would've been too easy, too obvious. This is more her speed, makes her think, sends a shiver down her spine.

What he didn't expect is for her to lean back, swish the bag off the bed, for her legs to fall open. She blinks, squints towards the door to make sure she closed it when she settled in for her homework and that no one's going to disturb her, then to the window to make sure the curtains are drawn, and ohh, this isn't what he expected. This is so much more, so much _better_.

She's slow to unbutton her shirt. It's a flimsy thing, dusky pink, vintage flower print, with a low neckline and buttons all down the front, and she takes her time with each of them, cherishes the anticipation of what she's about to do. When she's done, she doesn't pull it off all the way, just lets it fall to the side, revealing an off-white bra. She's not taking that off either, simply pushes her hand beneath the material. Her fingers ghost over the skin around the aureola first, until she can't take it anymore, she _has_ to touch herself. The wrinkled skin is hard and peaked already, and when the tip of one finger brushes over her own nipple, she groans.

His image flicker up in her mind, the young face he gave her to think about, and he's not sure whose choice that is; his or her own. She imagines it to be him when her other hand glides down her stomach, beneath the waistband of her black skirt and into her panties –  that match the bra, of course. This time, she's not teasing herself, doesn't drag it out. Her fingers pass through the wetness, up and down with just the right pressure on her clit every time. She frees her breast out of the confines of the bra with the other hand, brings the tips of her fingers to her lips and wets them before she plays with the erected nub some more. Her movements are in synch, pick up speed and intensity, and he can't keep himself out of this anymore. He needs to _see_.

She freezes, shakes her head, and he's afraid he's coming on too strong, steered her too harshly, until she grins to herself while she elevates her lower body and peels skirt and panties down her own hips in one go. She didn't notice, accepts it to be her own idea when she spreads herself wide and conjures up his face again, imagines how he kneels down between the v of her legs. The smell of her, heady and thick, makes his head swim. Her eyes are closed but he sees, oh, he sees it when her fingers find the wet folds again, when she holds herself apart and strokes them all the way down, pushes in with two fingers, then strokes back up. Her movements become more focused, intensify and concentrate on her clit when her body tenses and she balls up the sheets with her free hand. It's his idea as much as hers when she lets go of the fabric to brush her thumb along her nipple again, not as coordinated and rhythmic as it was earlier, but frantic, hurried, eager to get off now. She groans again, mouth falling open as her breathing speeds up and the muscles low in her belly contract with her orgasm while she keeps going, strokes herself through it until she's done and lets her hand fall to the side, come to rest high on her thigh.

She lies there for a moment, still and spent, before she wipes her finger on the sheet, shifts and reaches down to search for the slip of paper with the poem. It's his voice in her head that reads _there are windchimes and the smell of lemons, some days it rains, but more often the air is dry and sweet_ , and his lips she imagines press a kiss to her cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> The quoted poem is “Death comes to me, a girl” by Dorianne Laux.


End file.
